


Catching Up Fast

by Catchclaw, Crowgirl



Series: Mental Mimosa [78]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Office, Bossy!Steve, Brief Mention of Fox News, Chance Meetings, Cooking, Crushes, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Backstory, Minor Injuries, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Washington D.C., possessive!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 23:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Tony doesn't see the other guy coming, is the thing. Best mistake of his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From Catchclaw: The seed of this story was a wee ficlet of mine called "[If You Can Breathe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877491).” CrowGirl hopped into the comments, started saying brilliant things, and boom! what had been 617 words became over 14,500(!) of feels and smut. Bless you and your love of Steve Rogers/Chris Evans, friend.
> 
> And from CrowGirl: My hearty thanks and bows and curtsies to Catchclaw for letting me play and for being a delightful co-author in a ‘verse and ship of which I know nothing save what I read in the papers!

He doesn’t see the other guy coming, is the thing.

It’s not that he’s completely distracted by his thoughts, by the dozen would-be prototypes running around in his head, but they’re more interesting than the street he’s on, the one he walks down every day, the one with an _Au Bon Pain_ on one corner and a CVS on the next and walls of doors to bland lobbies of buildings filled with lobbyists and lawyers and other flavors of ex- and still-craven politicos.

Plus, bikes aren’t allowed on the sidewalk, so why would he be watching for one?

One second, Tony’s minding his own business on the vertical and the next, he’s facedown on concrete with the wind in his ears and his palms bloody. And somebody cursing nearby.

“Shit!” the somebody is saying. “Aw, shit, man. Are you ok?”

A hand on his back. That same voice again, softer now.

“Hey, man. I’m so sorry. I thought you saw me. Do you want me to call 911?”

Tony groans. His knees feel like shit and something is definitely bruised. Like, a lot. But the last thing he needs is a chat with Officer Friendly or EMS Jones. No, what he needs is to lie down on the nice, tasteful rug Clint picked out for his office and bemoan his bad luck. Maybe curse the universe for a bit.

“‘M fine,” he says. “Just--ugh.” He opens his eyes, groggy, and raises his head and damn. Goddamn. This fucking day just got a lot better.

Because the smashy bike guy is hot. No, smashy bike guy is _gorgeous_ , even in his pointy helmet and bike shorts. Especially in his bike shorts. Which are right in Tony’s banged-up face. God.

“Can you stand?” bike guy asks. He shuffles back a little and offers Tony a hand. He’s wearing half gloves, black leather that leave his fingers free. Oh, fuck. It’s like he’s been sculpted from a variety pack of Tony Stark’s Favorite Kinks. “Hey, come on. That’s right. Nice and easy, ok?”

He has quicksilver eyes and sunglasses tucked into a tight Under Armor top and he looks, to his credit, legitimately worried. He should be, Tony thinks. He just plowed a man down in broad daylight. And thank the good lord that he did. 

“Ow,” Tony says, gripping the guy’s hand tighter. Watching the muscles in bike guy’s arm flex. “Fuck. Holy hell." 

“Yeah?” A smile now and that’s 100 times worse. Jesus, this man is pretty. “Swearing’s usually a good sign.”

“Usually? You make a habit of hitting people?”

The guy blushes. Honest-to-God bites his lip. “No. Just a thing I learned in the Army: if you can swear, you can breathe; and if you can breathe, you should move.”

The Army?! Fuck, Tony must’ve been a damn saint in some former life. “Sage advice, Mister--?”

The hand holding his turns into a shake, firm and decisive. “Barnes,” the guy says. “Bucky Barnes. I’ve been your accidental assaulter today.”

Tony laughs which makes him bobble, which makes Barnes swoop in and take some of his weight. That doesn’t help with the bobbling because Barnes smells like springtime and sweat, like lattes and Orangina, and Tony Stark is fucking in love.

“My office is on the next block,” he says in a voice that feels a lot steadier than his knees. “Would you mind being my human cane and helping me get there in one piece?”

Barnes sweeps an arm around his waist. “Yeah, of course. Give me a sec to lock down my bike?”

Tony waves a hand at him, magnanimous. “Of course.”

It takes ten torturous minutes to get to his building, up to his floor, to his desk. The scrapes and bruises are one thing. The feel of all that muscle pressed against Tony’s side, the slide of those confident hands around his body, is a whole hell of another.

“Wow, _this_ is your office?” Barnes says, not even a little out of breath from supporting Tony for a block, a lobby, and an elevator ride. The fit bastard. Tony, on the other hand, feels like he’s put in a damn mile. But, on the other hand, self-restraint’s never been one of his stronger virtues and he’s been giving it a damn workout this morning.

“Yeah,” he says, halfway to a wheeze, “this is me.”

“Jesus.” Barnes helps him to his desk chair and lets him ease down into it, then straightens up. “I mean, Steve said this building was fancy, but fuck.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, uh -- my -- my boyfriend.” Barnes waves a hand and Tony suspects he’s blushing again somewhere under all that tan. “He works around here.”

“Ah.” Tony resists the urge to scream. Of course. Of _course_ this would be his luck. A meet-cute from a fucking romantic comedy: hot, smart --he’s willing to take that on faith--, and of course, _of course_ , taken. “Y’know, you don’t have to--”

Barnes shakes his head sharply and turns back, peeling off his gloves and dropping them on Tony’s desk. “So do you have a first aid kit around here or am I going to have to go for supplies?”

It’s early, not even seven, which is both a good and a bad. Good because Tony’s banged-up ass isn’t getting gawked at by everybody on the damn floor--this shit would be all over Twitter--bad because that means he’s alone with this gorgeous, pleasantly sweaty man who seems determined to play Clara Barton.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “There’s one in Clint’s desk. My assistant. His desk’s right outside the door. Look in the bottom right hand drawer.”

Tony tips the chair back and does not watch Barnes walk away, he does not, because dear God, those bike shorts are criminal enough from the front. Whoever this Steve guy is, he’s damn well blessed. Tony kind of wants to salute him. _Well done hooking this criminally beautiful and irrationally kind creature, sir. Well fucking done._

“Well,” Bucky says, “hate to break it to you, but all you’ve got are Mickey Mouse band-aids and some expired Neosporin. Not gonna get us very far.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says, sitting up straight. “You know, I’m really not--”

The sentence stops. The words do. Hell, the rotation of the earth kind of stutters.

Because Barnes looks different. He’s taken off his helmet. And if he was gorgeous before, now he is nine kinds of transcendent. Dark hair that’s too long--a middle finger to the service, no doubt--with bangs that fall stupid charming into his eyes. Eyes that are lighter than they’d seemed, hmm; a tricky hazel that, free of the helmet’s visor, lean towards the green. Put those together with the shadow of scruff and the pretty turn of his mouth and Sergeant Bucky Barnes was more than just hot. He was the stuff of goddamn dreams.

And he was saying something. Or had been, because he looked expectant, like it was Tony’s turn to contribute.

“Uh,” Tony says. “I’m fine?”

Barnes lifts an eyebrow. “You sure? I mean, this stuff will work ok on your hands, maybe, but you should get the rest of you looked at. Sidewalk burn can be a real bitch.” He sets the kit on the desk, frowning, and reaches out a hand. “God, I didn’t see it before, but there’s a hell of a scrape on your chin.” His fingers are warm and careful, pressing gently into Tony’s skin. “Yeah, right there. You feel that?” 

Tony’s going to die. He’s gonna spontaneously freaking combust right here at his desk and honestly, that might be the best option. Otherwise, he might say something that he should--but so won’t--regret.

“Promise me you’ll get this looked at,” Bucky says, serious.

“Yeah, sure. I promise.”

Barnes leans back and Tony realizes that he’s perched on the corner of the desk, looking down at Tony, almost sheepish. “I’m so sorry,” he says for the nine hundredth time.

“It’s ok,” Tony says, tries to, but Bucky cuts him off.

“It isn’t and I’d--I’d like to make it up to you. Or at least apologize in some more tangible way.”

Several deeply inappropriate responses occur to Tony at once and he thinks it’s probably only because of the mental traffic jam that one of them doesn’t pop out into the open air. As it is, he goggles at Barnes for a minute without saying anything.

Barnes frowns. “Seriously, man, are you _sure_ \--”

Suddenly, there’s a screech, a loud blast of sound from somewhere around Bucky’s back. “Oh, crap,” he says, fumbling with his pack, fishing out his phone, “ _crap_. I forgot all about the--hello?”

He steps away from Tony’s desk. “Yeah, hey babe. No, I’m not dead. But I almost ran over a guy, if that counts.” He gives Tony a floppy grin and Tony’s heart turns right the hell over again. “Give me ten, ok? And you can order for me, if you want. Same as always.” The person on the other end laughs, a sound loud enough to land across the room. “Yeah, fuck you, boring,” Barnes says with a chuckle. “Why else do you think I stay with you? Mmm, yeah. Ok. Love you, too.”

“Let me guess,” Tony says, “that was Steve. And I’ve made you fantastically late for something, haven’t I?”

“Well,” Barnes says, “it’s just breakfast. And not fantastically late.”

Tony stares at the guy a little too hard, maybe, tries to grab one more mental picture before Barnes slips back out of his life for good. It’s crass, ok, but he wants to be able to imagine Bucky’s hands on him, his mouth, the hum of that gorgeous smile on his skin later, when he’s alone with his thoughts and his cock. It’s ok to objectify the guy, he tells himself, really it is, because once he walks out that door, it’s not like he’s going to see Bucky Barnes ever again.

Barnes picks up his helmet and tucks it under his arm. Makes like he’s going to turn away to the door, stops. Looks Tony square in the face, decisive. “You should come over for dinner,” he announces.

“Should I?” 

“I mean, ah, God, that came out wrong. I mean, this is me inviting you to dinner, by way of apology.” His lips turn. “Steve can’t boil water for shit, but he knows how to open a bottle of wine. And I’m a hell of a cook.”

“Dinner,” Tony croaks. One of the hottest men he’s ever seen outside of porn is offering to make him dinner. Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. “You sure? Seriously, you don't have to do that.”

“Sure I do.” Bucky makes grabby hands at him.  “Can I have your phone? I’ll give you the address. And my phone number, in case you get lost. We’re a five-minute cab ride from Dupont Circle, ten if you walk.” His fingers fly for a second, tapping, and then he hands back the phone. “So. How does tomorrow night at seven sound?”

“It sounds,” Tony says faintly, “great. Like a plan. Like a great plan.”

Barnes throws out another heart-stopping smile and Tony is so very glad he’s sitting down. Otherwise, that look might have him kissing carpet. “Ok,” Barnes says, “great. See you tomorrow.” He stops in the doorway, points. “And put something on those scrapes, huh? Otherwise they’ll sting like a bitch.”

Only when he hears the elevator ding and the doors slide mercifully closed does Tony remember to breathe. 

Good Christ, he thinks. What in the everloving fuck just happened?

He’s still sitting there staring when Clint ambles in 10 minutes later, his hands full of an inappropriately large amount of Starbucks. 

“Tony,” he says, “dude. What the fuck happened to you?”

And then Tony laughs, he has to; it’s like a dam cracking inside of his head. He laughs so hard that his ribs ache, that he has to plant one palm flat on the desk to keep himself up and, damn, that scrape _does_ hurt. “Barton,” he gets out finally, “I’ll be damned if I can explain it.”

“Ok, well,” Clint says, “you might want to figure it out before your eight thirty. You’re bleeding through your pants there, man.”

Tony grabs the edge of his desk and tries to see his own shin. “Of course I am,” he says. “Of course I fucking am. It’s been that kind of a morning.” 

Because only then does he realize that, in the rush and weird of it all, he never told hot bike guy his name.


	2. Chapter 2

So the next night, heading to Barnes’s house? It feels like a crap shoot at best. 

Yes, objectively and surely by every known scientific measure, Barnes is gorgeous. But so what? What else does Tony really know about the guy? Except that he seems to rush into things without thinking, without looking both ways. And he’s got a boyfriend named Steve.

He walks the last block a little slower than he needs to, the bottle of cognac he pulled out of the cellar suddenly heavier in his hands. The sun’s just skating off the rooftops and the air has the feel of early summer: tender, on edge. Waiting for the real heat to come.

Maybe the suitcoat was a mistake.

Tony looks up, tugging at the collar of his carefully-faded t-shirt and what do you know? He’s finally there.

Huh.

He’s not sure what he’d been expecting -- a high-rise, maybe? Penthouse apartment? Super-modern condo? -- but an old Victorian with a comfortably faded paint job and pansies planted outside the wooden fence that divides the narrow strip of lawn from the sidewalk had not been it.

He stands outside the gate -- the _gate_ , for fuck’s sake! -- for a minute, irresolute, then shakes his head sharply and reaches for the latch. Tony Stark does _not_ hang around on sidewalks.

The front door opens before he’s even up the porch steps and he just about manages not to stumble in the face of Bucky Barnes cleaned up.

“Hey,” Bucky says with a wide, warm grin, “you’re early.”

His hair’s loose and damp, the ends brushing just past the collar of his heather gray henley. Yesterday’s stubble is tonight’s pleasant shadow that frames the full lines of his mouth and his eyes, sweet Jesus: his eyes are even more gorgeous without the “oh shit, did I break you?” worry in them. Barnes looks relaxed, utterly at fucking ease, and it nearly stops Tony’s heart.

How the hell is he going to get through tonight?

“I -- uh -- yeah, sorry,” Tony sputters. “I never trust taxis near Dupont. They always think they know where they’re going and then they take one wrong left and suddenly you’re doing a u-turn in front of some ambassador’s house, so I, uh. I left early. Hope it’s not a problem, me being here, uh, now.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nope. It’s fine. Glad you found it.” He nudges the inner door open with his shoulder and gestures Tony into the hall. “C’mon in.”

Tony takes a deep breath before stepping past the man into the hall and even that precaution doesn’t save him: clean cloth, clean skin, soap (something with a citrus-sweet scent), and no cologne because _of course_ Barnes has to be one of those guys who just smells _that_ fucking good all on his own. Tony swallows a hysterical giggle, gives his cock a metaphorical slap -- _down, boy_ \-- and turns back, holding out the bottle. “As thanks.”

Barnes cocks an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Not leaving me on the sidewalk to be pecked over by tourists and pissed-off pedestrians.”

“Pffft,” Barnes says, closing the door behind them. “Anybody would’ve done the same.”

Tony laughs and lets himself be herded towards an open door at the end of the hall. “Ah, no. I assure you. They would not.” 

“Wouldn’t what?” somebody says.

Tony steps into the kitchen and sees--

And sees--

A Greek statue with blond hair and blue eyes poking at a huge pan of lasagna, his face split by a grin. “Hey!” he says. “Look what the Buck dragged in! His mystery man. He--” 

And then that sculpted face falls, a look of panic duking it out with amusement and Tony’s not sure if the guy’s going to throw up or laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” the kitchen god says. “Bucky, you hit Tony Stark!”

Barnes grunts, looks as confused as Tony feels. “Who the hell is Tony Stark?”

Blondie drops the serving fork with a clatter and goes two scoops of white. “My boss! I mean, my boss’s boss, technically, since he’s the head of the whole damn company, so yeah: he’s my boss. You -- ran over my boss.”

Since everyone is now staring at him, Tony waves a hand in full-on nonchalant. “Since I have no idea who you are or who you work for,” he says, “I don’t think it really counts.”

The guy swallows hard, but color starts to come back into his face and he slips around the corner of the island to shake Tony’s hand. “I -- um -- I’m -- sorry Buck hit you.”

“I’m not,” Tony says and nods towards the lasagne. “That looks like the best meal I’ve had all week.” 

And suddenly Blondie laughs and the moment of tension is gone.

“Steve Rogers,” he says, holding out a hand. “I’m in marketing. I work for Phil Coulson. Started about a month ago.”

“Oh,” Tony says before he can think, “that’s why I don’t know you.”

“Yeah, a month’s not long enough for--” 

“No, Coulson hates me.” 

Steve pauses. “Coulson… hates you?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Tony waves a hand dismissively. “He keeps his people away from me like I’m infectious or something.”

Steve tilts his head. “But -- why does he work for you?" 

“Oh, he loves the _company_ , just not me. The stuff we make, the foundation, all that, he loves.”

“Funny,” Steve says, “he didn’t mention that during orientation. Don’t remember him saying _keep away from the big boss_ or anything.” 

Tony shrugs, his lips ticking up. “We agree to disagree about stuff that matters and let go of most of what doesn’t. It works out.”

Bucky’s ignoring them, fussing with the oven, poking critically at the lasagne. “If you two are gonna talk shop,” he says, “please don’t do it in here. That’s what God made appetizers for, huh?”

Steve laughs and catches Bucky by the neck, a move strangely both soft and possessive. “That’s right. The chef doesn’t like being watched.”

Bucky’s eyes run dark and something passes between them, a spark, that even at this distance gets Tony’s heart racing. “No,” Bucky says, his eyes never leaving Steve’s, “not when I’m cooking, I don’t.”

That gets him a kiss; more of a peck, really, technically PG, but there’s a current beneath it, a hint of a riptide, that is veering hard right towards an X. “You yell if you need help,” Steve says. Less a request than a very gentle demand.

“I will,  I promise.” Bucky brandishes a spatula, shoves Steve towards the screen door by the fridge that somehow Tony’s missed until now. “Now shoo. My bruschetta’s burning.”

They both grin and just like that the ember is banked, the kinetic energy in the room sinking away from _get a room_ back towards _dinner party_.

Steve waves Tony towards the door. “Come on out to the sunporch,” he says. “Plenty of food out here already. You feeling like wine?”

“God. Always.”

He settles in the skinny chair that Steve points to and goggles--honest to God goggles--at what can only be described as the gorgeous fucking spread that eats up three-fifths of a worn wooden table.

“Wow,” he says, staring. There are stuffed mushrooms and dates wrapped in bacon and that’s definitely something involving squares of goat cheese and olives and...this isn’t the main course?

Steve presses a glass into his hand--a rich, hearty red--and tips back in a chair with one of his own. “Please,” he says, “help yourself." 

“He did say he likes to cook,” Tony says. “But holy shit. Wow.”

Ok, maybe not his most articulate bon mot but Steve laughs like it’s the most delightful thing he’s heard all day, and Tony could get _far_ too used to the sound of that laugh. _Dinner_ , he reminds himself firmly, and leans forward to grab a stuffed mushroom. Steve pulls off a piece of what looks like a flatbread pizza -- the man made this for _appetizers?_ Jesus, Tony could live for a week off this table. It’s delicious, too, and he’s suddenly aware that he’d forgotten lunch. There had been a granola bar in there somewhere but the mushroom goes down into what suddenly feels like an aching void where his stomach used to be and he has to stop himself from just planting face-first into the table.

He looks around to distract himself. “The sunporch” is really an enclosed deck and there’s another square of lawn between it and a high wooden privacy fence. There are dark green blinds rolled at the top of the panels of mosquito netting and lanterns, unlit, hang from hooks on the posts. And there are pots of geraniums on the steps that lead down onto the grass: bright red and white.

“It’s not a lot,” Steve says, absolutely misinterpreting Tony’s stare, “but we like it.”

Tony swallows his last bite of mushroom too fast, chokes a little, and washes it down with wine. “No, no--” He shakes his head. “No, it’s -- great, really. I -- just haven’t--” _Seen the inside of an actual house in a decade?_ “I don’t see a lot of places like this.”

“It was my grandma’s.” Steve gets up, digging a lighter out of his jeans and lights the candle in the lantern nearest to them. There’s a faint drift of citronella scent and the flame wavers for a minute before catching and burning steadily.

“So you inherited it?” 

“No-one else in the family wanted it.” 

“Can you believe that?” Bucky puts in, coming out with a steaming baking dish between his oven-gloved hands. “Can you make some room, babe?” 

Tony gets up to help, putting his wineglass on one side and somehow, by the time they’re sitting back down around the table with plates of lasagne and Bucky has a glass of wine, too, Tony has his elbows perched around the platter of dates and is telling them about how his own grandmother’s house had been a modernist nightmare, something straight out of a New Wave Swedish design magazine circa 1950, and she refused to have a _thing_ changed and ended up having to have all her paint custom-mixed because no-one made the original colors any more and Steve is laughing like Tony’s actually _funny_ and then Bucky is talking about how they had come out to Steve’s grandmother who, it turned out, had assumed they had been a couple for since they were, like, _ten_ \--

“And when Buck left for Afghanistan,” Steve says, “she cried for a week. Couldn’t understand why I wasn’t curled up in a corner doing the same.”

Bucky shifts uneasily, tries to hide behind another glass of wine. Huh. Tony knows that move. Hell, Tony invented it.

“Why weren’t you?” he asks, more flip than he means to. “Upset, I mean.”

Steve bristles a little, just enough for Tony to see the steel behind the blond and pretty. “I _was_. But I also knew that was where he wanted to be, period, and there was nothing we could do but sit here and wait." 

“He tried to talk me out of it,” Bucky says. “Signing up for the Army, I mean. Repeatedly and loudly.”

Tony nods. “I would have, too.”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” Steve says. He reaches out, spears his fingers through Bucky’s hair hard, just this side of mean. “Once he makes up his mind that he wants something, wants to do something, it’s a non-negotiable. He’s an undeterrable force sometimes, aren’t you, baby?" 

“Pot paging kettle, Stevie,” Bucky says, sharp.

That hum’s in the air again, that tension from the kitchen, but there’s an edge to it now, a hint of something pointed, of old, simmering hurts. The way they’re looking at each other, the way Bucky’s leaning into Steve’s grip, the grief in Steve’s face, long remembered.

They’ve known each other their whole lives, Steve had said, loved each other almost as long, no doubt, and Tony wonders how close they came to losing all that when Bucky climbed on that transport and flew away. He has a feeling Steve’s spent a lot of time wondering about that, too. 

“When did you get back?” Tony asks. Not _how long were you over there_ or _when did you tour end_? It’s like Rhodey taught him: the only data point that matters, the one thing you’re thinking about every hour of every godforsaken day, is when will your boots once again kiss the good old US of A.

Bucky chews on that for a second. “End of 2004. November, I think.”

“November 27th,” Steve says. “9:32 pm. Not that I was counting or anything.”

His grip’s loose on Bucky’s shoulder now, his palm spread wide, but the last murmurs of fear are still there, like Bucky might vanish out from under his hand.

“‘Course you weren’t,” Bucky says. “Only down to the minute. That hardly counts anyway.” He kisses Steve’s cheek. “Besides, home in one piece. That’s what counts, right?”

Steve’s mouth is looser now, relaxed. Almost the hint of a smile. “Damn straight.”

Bucky’s eyes seek out Tony’s and stay there, kind of insistently linger. “Where’d you learn to ask that?” 

“Ask what?”

“ _When did you get back_?” Bucky leans a little over the table, his face catching the lantern light. “Most people say,  _how long were you over there_?”

“Friend of mine,” Tony says. “Been in the service basically his whole life. I asked him that when we first met--he’d just gotten back from Mogadishu--you know, _when did your tour end_? Something like that. And you know what he said?” 

Bucky’s eyebrows lift. “Something like:  _it hasn’t._ ”

“Yeah,” Tony says, shooting Bucky a smile. “Exactly that.” 

It only makes sense, then, to tell them about Rhodey, about how they met, and then somehow, Tony’s talking about Bosnia, about hanging out of a helicopter in a blue helmet and seeing dead swaths of where once there’d been buildings, cities, whole towns. He’s talking about the whistle of sniper fire in Sarajevo, long after everybody was supposed to be talking peace; about dead-eyed children and parents with vacant stares, empty hands. He’s talking about that helpless feeling that comes from war, especially one where the reasons for it are clear only to those doing the killing. He’d wanted to believe in justice, in the ability of international law to restore order, but hell, everything he’d seen over those months had convinced him that faith in the United Nations was akin to faith in Santa Claus.

“My dad didn’t want me to go,” he says, encouraged by a third glass of wine. “He was pissed about it, actually. He’d never have admitted it, but the old man was paranoid in a black helicopters are coming to force feed us fluoride kind of way. Never really got over the Cold War. He cried when the Berlin Wall came down, but not for the reasons you’d think.”

Bucky chuckles. “Which is exactly why you went, right?”

“Damn straight. Made a few calls, pulled in a few favors--a buddy of mine was a US Army attache to the Secretary General. Hooked me up. Five days from stem to stern and bam, I was in the thick of it. Ostensibly as an observer, of course. Can’t let civvies handle guns.”

“So it was a grandstanding thing,” Steve says, with more than a little barb.

Tony spreads his hands, nearly knocks over the wine bottle. “I mean, it started that way. Not gonna lie. I was young and dumb, Rogers. What can I say? But 10 minutes flying over that shit, over what people who’d been neighbors, members of the same community, had done to each other”--he shakes his head, tries to keep the miasma of those memories out--“all that crap just fucking evaporated.”

“How long were you over there?” Bucky’s voice is softer now, almost hoarse.

“Nine months, give or take.”

“And when’s the last time that you dreamed about it? About something you saw over there?

Tony looks up, startled, sees Bucky staring right at him again. Right through him, it feels like. “I, uh. I don’t know. A few months, I guess.”

“You’ve never talked about it, have you.” It isn’t really a question.

“You mean, with a counselor or something?” 

Those bright eyes are still on him, unwavering. “With anybody.”

Tony holds tighter to his drink. “Nah, you know,” he says. “Not really. Doesn’t usually play well at dinner parties.” And counselors -- Christ, it had been bad enough with his dad that he _went_. Coming back and going to a counselor would’ve been an unforgivable fucking sin.

He waits for the inevitable comeback-- _well you know you really should and here’s the name of my therapist; she’s great with maladjusted misanthropes like you_ \--but it doesn’t come out of Bucky’s mouth. None of those words do.

Instead, Bucky stretches out a hand and covers Tony’s where it swallows the stem of his glass. A pat first, then a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you came back,” Bucky says. 

Tony’s heart does a slow motion forward roll and he has to remind himself that Bucky’s boyfriend is sitting across from him, right next to Barnes, and no matter what his treacle heart is telling him, Bucky--the guy that came _this close_ to sending him to the ER on a platter--is just being a decent dude. Maybe even a friend. But that’s all.

Right? Right.

“So your dad was mad about you going over there,” Steve says. “How’s he feel about the direction that you’ve taken the company?” He doesn’t make the connection explicit, but it’s clear that he gets it. It’s there. Tony’s kind of impressed.

He picks up his glass, breaks Bucky’s grasp. Tries to settle the mad flutter in his gut. “You mean, less Blackwater, more Buffett? Yeah, he’s not thrilled. But he only brings it up five or six times when we have dinner now, instead of seven or eight. I’ll take it. That’s progress.” 

Bucky grins, this big, broad thing that Tony just cannot resist; he has to grin back. “S’better than my dad,” he says. “If he doesn’t throw at least one condiment and/or piece of silverware during dinner, my mom’s convinced that something’s wrong with him.”

“Because it is,” Steve grumbles, stabbing the last of the mushrooms. “Your dad’s a lunatic, babe." 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “I mean, throwing shit does sound kind of dangerous. I think you might win this round, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugs. “He never throws it _at_ anybody. Just the wall. And his brain’s been pickled by Rupert Murdoch, that’s all. A decade’s worth of Fox News would turn anybody inside out.”

Steve groans and buries his face in his hands. “Can we please not talk about that crap at the dinner table, please? Or ever? Let’s go with ever.”

Bucky comes back with snark and Steve answers in kind and they’re not on company behavior, Tony thinks; they’re not treating him like fine china, like a guest that has to be coddled. This is who they are, how they talk to one another when nobody else is around, and it feels like they’re letting him peek around the edge of a doorway, into a part of their lives most people don’t get to see. It fans the flames in his heart a little, a burst of air over smoldering coal. God, he walked in here with the beginnings of one crush and now the damn thing is spreading; now it feels like he might walk out of here with two.

Fuck, he is such a sap.

A sap who’d prefer the evening not get derailed by an argument as silly and unsexy as this.

“Hey, hey,” he says, raising his voice over theirs. “Hang on. Speaking of oversized patriotism--”

“Fox News is _not_ patriotic,” Steve spits. 

Tony holds up a hand. “No, I know, but did you know, fellas, that you’re breaking bread with a man who has been forcibly removed from the Pentagon not once, but twice?”

His words hang in the air for a second and then Bucky, bless him, starts laughing. “You _what_?” he says. 

“And when I say forcibly,” Tony says, “I mean, full-on MPs on each side, dumped me out a back door, the whole thing.”

Steve’s lips are twitching. “What the hell did you do? Do we want to know?”

Tony nods at the bottle by Bucky’s hand and winks at Steve. “Pour me another glass or three, sir, and maybe I’ll tell you.”

Fuck, it’s easy, being with the two of them. Comfortable. Despite the storytelling vibe, it doesn’t feel like Tony has to be on. He can just spoon sweet things from a plate and take long burning sips and run his mouth like he hasn’t in ages--the Pentagon tale, then the one about Rhodey and the fountain at Rockefeller Center, the time his car broke down in LA and he ended up wandering into the world’s greatest party. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t feel like Tony Stark, President, CEO, and blah blah blah--no, he feels like just Tony Stark. Just himself.

And before he knows it, all the plates are empty. Steve gets up with a stretch to light the rest of the lanterns; the bottle of wine is replaced; Bucky pulls the screen door at the top of the stairs shut against the first mosquitoes; the remains of the lasagne go back into the kitchen; the second bottle of wine is emptied; the last of the sunlight fades from the sky; a berry crumble, vanilla ice cream, and cognac come out.

He likes being with them, that’s all, and it isn’t any one thing Bucky and Steve do, no single kindness or gesture; it’s that somehow, they’ve made him feel welcome, less a guest (or Steve’s boss’s boss, good lord) than a friend, the kind you don’t have to dress up for, the kind who welcomes your company but isn’t afraid to tell you cheerfully to get the hell out. Not that he wants them to do that.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve says from the shadows, the lantern’s light playing over his face. At some point, Bucky had spun his chair around so he’s straddling it backwards, just behind Steve’s and is resting his elbow on the back of Steve’s chair, his chin propped on his fist, watching Tony.

“You,” Tony says, his voice pleasantly thick, “can ask me damn well anything.”

“Why’d you come over here?”

“Where?”

“Here. To our house. Why’d you come?" 

“Um,” Tony says, more a sound than a word. “Because Bucky invited me?”

He makes it a question in case it’s not the right answer, in case there’s something he’s missing. Given his present state, sated and spinny and his lips still a little sticky, that’s a real possibility.

“So,” Steve says, the words intriguingly nettled, “you say yes to every invitation? Guy like you must get a lot.”

And now the look Steve’s giving Tony--what Tony can catch of it, anyway, in the spaces the lanterns carve in the evening’s dark--has moved beyond warm, beyond neighborly, into some realm that Tony can’t quite name.

The heat that’d gone to sleep in his belly wakes up with a start he feels through his entire body. It even makes his fingertips tingle. Because if he didn’t know better--and he does, doesn’t he? Surely--he’d swear that Steve’s staring like Tony’s the next item on the menu. The dessert _aprés_ dessert.

No. He’s gotta be seeing things, right?

He runs the tip of his tongue over his lips and weighs the last few swallows of cognac in his glass. It’s way too late to be worried about drinking too much, so he takes another mouthful. “I didn’t want your boyfriend to think that I--”

Steve holds up a hand and leans forward, one lean forearm braced on the table and Tony is suddenly aware that Steve’s hands -- like the rest of him -- are gorgeous. Marketing nothing, the man should be a fucking model. And Tony has just missed whatever Steve was saying to him. Fantastic. He takes another sip of whiskey and tries for nonchalant: “Come again?" 

He’s definitely imagining the momentary smirk on Barnes’ face, right? He must be. Can’t see a damned thing in this light.

“I asked if you realize you’ve been calling Buck _my boyfriend_ all night.”

“Uh -- well -- isn’t he?”

Steve makes a noncommittal humming noise and Barnes breaks in before he can say anything: “He’s gonna give you a whole line about how it’s heteronormative but what he _means_ is that he doesn’t like how that word makes it sound like I’m his property.” He darts a glance at Steve. “Even if I am.”

Tony blinks -- then blinks again, trying to banish the images of collars that are suddenly floating in front of his eyes -- and how fucking _sweet_ a thin strap of black leather might look just above Barnes’ collarbones -- and tries blinking a third time. “So. I don’t get it.” He shakes his head, downs the last swallow of cognac. “Did I do something wrong or not?”

Barnes’s mouth turns up. “Definitely not.”

“But,” Steve says, “there is something you should understand.”

“And what’s that?”

Steve leans across the table and Christ, he’s big; broad shoulders, wide chest, and this soft, looming smile. Tony feels like he’s about to be swallowed whole. “Bucky’s been wanting you to kiss him since you walked in,” Steve says, hot honey, “and I really want to see his face, your face, when you do.”

There’s a long moment, the space between a dozen heartbeats, when Tony doesn’t trust his damn ears, when the glass in his hand turns to lead and every limb feels like it’s now made of stone. A roar fills his ears, a fire, and only Steve’s eyes keep him together, keep every last stitch of him from fraying and falling away.

“He,” he hears himself say, a voice from the bottom of a well, “he wants to kiss me?”

There’s a soft sound from the other side of the table, and Steve turns towards the noise. “Tell him, Buck. Ask for what you want.”

Barnes shifts up into the light and hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes hot, a look that could’ve burned down Pompeii. “Would you kiss me?” he asks. “I know I don’t deserve it--”

“No,” Steve chides gently. “You don’t." 

“--but I want it anyway.” He bites his lip and makes that sound again, a sigh mixed up with a whine. “Please, Tony.” A hint of a smirk, a bit of pout. “I mean, _Mr. Stark_.”

Tony feels beautifully caged in, like the air is made of velvet ropes, and there’s part of him that wants to play this cool but fuck that part hard and sideways. “Yes,” he says, shoving his chair back. “Fuck yes. Come here.”

Bucky comes to him like a man fully aware of how fucking sexy he looks, slowly sauntering around the corner of the table, giving Tony plenty of time to take in the lines of his body, pushing his dark hair back out of his eyes and adjusting Tony’s chair as though the weight of Tony’s body in it means nothing.

Tony intends to wrest control of the situation back ASAP, really he does, but as soon as Bucky’s weight settles on his thighs, he knows he’s gone -- there’s no fucking way he’s getting anything even _like_ control back tonight and in some distant part of his mind, he wonders if he’s really that upset about it, especially when Bucky’s mouth tastes like vanilla ice cream and wine, when he’s possessed by a sort of hot, heavy want that has desire coiling thick in his belly the moment that their tongues touch. 

There’s a sort of wordless sigh that almost sounds like a moan and Bucky pulls his lips away, keeping his hand at the back of Tony’s neck, his fingers feathering into Tony’s hair. 

“You can touch, you know,” Bucky says.

Tony lets out his breath. “God. Can I?”

“Yes,” Steve says, firm. “You can.”

He hadn’t meant to ask for permission, exactly; more like enthusiastic consent. But fuck if it doesn’t wind him up some, being told what he can and can’t do.

His hips rock as his hands rise and when he catches Bucky’s shoulder, one thick, muscled thigh, they groan, Steve and Barnes both, and then he and Bucky are kissing again, deeper now, wetter and more heated than before.

“Fuck,” he hears Steve say out in the distance, a light cutting through the sweet haze of Bucky’s body, his quick, eager tongue. “Fuck, you two. That’s so pretty." 

Tony can feel the shudder that Steve’s words send down Bucky’s spine, the way they make his own cock stiffen and twitch and he’s so lost in how good he feels that he misses the creak of the table, the rough metal scrape of the chair until there’s a hand in his hair, big and steady and hot.

“Don’t stop,” Steve says. His voice is lower now, smooth and pleasantly dark. “You’re both being so good.”

Barnes whimpers, wraps the sound around Tony’s tongue, and all at once Tony can feel how hard Bucky is, how thoroughly he’s working himself against Tony’s dick now, the pace of their kisses never slowing, each sliding into the next as Steve holds his head steady, five fingers pressed tight against Tony’s scalp, holding him still, not given him a second to think or wonder or ask; Steve just makes him _take_. And that’s new -- he’s never really taken direction so explicitly before but Steve’s voice is making his skin tingle and if Bucky keeps pushing up against him like that, making those tiny noises that almost sound like hurt but taste like something entirely different then Tony’s pretty sure he can get into this kink pretty fast.

“Buck,” Steve says, soft. “Take your shirt off.”

Bucky rears back as if Steve had given him a shove and scrabbles for the hem of his shirt. His hands are shaking, Tony realizes, huh, because no, that can’t, it _can’t_ be because of him. He’s never made someone _shake_ before. Not from this. God, they’ve barely just kissed.

He wants to reach up, wants to slide his fingers through Bucky’s and tug that damn cloth away from his body, but he’s not sure he should, not sure that he’s allowed to, because--because--there’s a dark flutter in his gut--because, fuck: Steve hasn’t said that he can.

 _Jesus_. The flutter turns into a sink, something like a hot stone.

Maybe it shows on his face, or in the feel of his body, or maybe Steve’s as sick of watching Bucky struggle as Tony is because his grip on Tony’s hair relaxes and strong fingers stroke the back of his neck.

“It’s ok. You can help if you want, Tony.” 

Bucky pauses and gives Tony a grin that, under other circumstances, might be described as _shy_ and Tony surges forward before he even means to move, digging his hands under Bucky’s shirt and hauling the fabric up out of the way of what turns out to be a delicious expanse of skin and muscle that’s even better than what ok, yes, he might’ve spent the last 24+ hours fantasizing about 

“Fucking _God_ …” Tony breathes the words out against the soft skin of Bucky’s breastbone and Bucky trembles under his hands, the shirt dropping to the floor with a faint _shuff_.

“Better,” Steve says.

Tony nuzzles the heat of Bucky’s chest, the damp, murmurs: “Yeah, it is.”

He lifts his head and Barnes lets his fall and this time, Bucky’s noisy. He fills the air, the night, the uncertain light with hot, anxious sounds, arching into Tony’s hands as Tony scratches at his back, creeps his fingers down Bucky’s spine. 

A whisper over their heads, a blessing. “That’s right,” Steve says. “Just like that.”

Steve’s holding Tony’s shoulders now, pinning his body to the chair, Tony’s head to the flat plain of Steve’s stomach, and Bucky’s fists are curled in Tony’s shirt and Jesus, he’s pinned, trapped between two beautiful creatures intent on making sure he finds pleasure, the two of them bound and determined to make him feel good. And it isn’t that Tony hasn’t been someplace like this before -- caught between two, three, hell, once four, bodies, all sweat and hot skin and musk -- but that had always felt more…more like jerking off in company, less like -- less like -- well, less like _this_. And he likes this _way_ the fuck better. And all they’re doing is kissing.

Barnes twists and Tony clutches his hips, grinds them together, rubs himself against the shove and strain of Bucky’s cock.

Ok, mostly kissing.

Steve’s hands go steel and yank Tony out of the kiss. “Nuh uh,” he says. “Down, boy. Nobody’s coming just yet.”

“Wasn’t,” Tony manages, “wasn’t going to. I was just--”

Suddenly Steve’s cheek is pressed against his, that steady voice now a warm roar. “No. You weren’t.” He senses more than sees Steve reaching for Bucky, hears Steve’s palm catching stubble, Bucky’s hungry hum in return. “Not until Buck gets his mouth on you. I want to watch you come all over his face.”

Part of Tony’s brain whites out at that -- well, that, or the hungry noise that comes out of Bucky and the slip of his hands across Tony’s neck.

But the part of his brain that makes him a terror to board meetings--when he can be bothered to attend, anyway, because oh _God_ are those things fucking boring--stays engaged and he grips Bucky’s hips and turns so he can see Steve. “Not that I object to that notion, not at fucking all, but...is this what you guys _do_? Like it’s your thing? Bring home a devastatingly handsome stranger and drive him out of his mind?”

Bucky freezes, his whole body suddenly tense, and Tony looks back at him, shakes his head. “Hey, hey, hang on. I’m not _complaining_ , Barnes. I just wanna know the score. If this is your regular Tuesday night, ok. But it’d be helpful to know what part you’d like me to play.”

His dick is pitching a fit, shouting obscenities at his rational mind-- _just take the goddamn blow job, you asshole_ \--but something in his gut tells him this is the right call. That before he gets his heart set on something he sure as shit cannot have, he’ll take that cold water to the face, please.

There’s the sound of a deep inhalation right beside his ear and Steve’s hand slips heavy to his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “We’ve done this a couple times before.”

“But not -- not --” Bucky bites his lip and looks up beseechingly at Steve. “Not exactly like this.”

“Fellas,” Tony says, “color me a little confused.”

Steve sighs. “Usually, it’s a stranger. Some willing guy we meet in a bar.” He turns his nails over Tony’s heart. “But you...Buck’s been crowing for the last month about this hot guy he kept seeing on his morning rides -- always alone, always had his head buried in his phone, but had the sweetest smile, always said hi to the flower lady on the corner, bought coffee for the homeless kids when they were there.”

 Tony tips his head back, squints up at the shadowy tower of Steve. “Uh---”

“Fuck, I had no idea who you were,” Bucky says.

“And believe me,” Steve says, low thunder in the valley of his chest, “I had no idea Buck was talking about you.”

Tony’s thoughts feel like a clothes dryer, tumbled together and hot. “So -- you ran into me on _purpose_?”

“No! God, no. I swear. I wasn’t--you popped up out of nowhere.”

Steve chuckles. “Buck’s not usually the one to make the first move, Tony. But you’re the exception. You don’t know how gone he’s been on you, even from a distance. And now--”

Tony squeezes Bucky’s thighs, hot skin singing to him through denim. He feels lit up and halfway to used and the notion that Bucky, _Bucky_ , this gorgeous, kind specimen who kisses like the dirtiest angel has been thinking about him turns his crank so hard he can hardly see straight. “Yeah?” he says. “Is that true, Bucky?”

Even in the soft, uneven light, Bucky’s blush is unmistakable. “Yeah.”

“He was talking about you last night, in fact,” Steve says. “Wouldn’t shut up the whole time I was fucking him." 

“ _Steve!_ Jesus Christ.”

Steve laughs again. “Shhhh, baby. I think Tony deserves to know how bad you’ve had it for him.”

That’s it. Tony is going to die, burst into flames and take down this deck, this house, hell, fucking hell. The whole block.

The words that come out of him are way steadier than they should be, sound more coherent than they do in his head. “Well then,” he says, pitching his voice up to Steve, “I don’t think he should have to wait any longer, do you?”

They both groan then, Bucky squirming in his lap like an horny kid and Steve sliding his hands up to cup Tony’s face, his big thumbs brushing Tony’s cheeks. “On one condition,” Steve says.

“Oh, fuck you, one,” Tony huffs.

Steve bends down, finds Tony’s mouth. “We need to go inside. Where there’s more light. You have to see his face when he’s sucking cock.” A kiss, short and sharp. “And you’re way too pretty to hide in the dark.”


	3. Chapter 3

The funny thing -- the _really_ fucking funny thing, Tony thinks later -- is that they clean up the food first.

Bucky slides off his lap and bends to retrieve his shirt. When he straightens up, his gaze runs over the table and he makes a grumbling noise deep in his throat. “Fuck it -- I’m not letting all this go to waste.” He yanks his shirt back on and starts to gather up silverware in one hand.

Steve laughs -- the rumble going straight through Tony where Steve is still pressed against him -- and steps away to pile up dirty plates.

Tony takes a minute for some deep breaths, then shoves himself to his feet and grabs the crumble pan.

And so they do this -- this weirdly homey routine of cleaning up the dinner table before -- well, before whatever the hell happens next. And it’s not like Tony has cleared a lot of dinner tables in his time but he’s pretty sure previous times haven’t involved someone stroking his ass every time he gets within arms’ reach or, once he feels a little bolder himself, angling to brush his hip over the very obvious bulge in the front of Bucky’s jeans.

“Fuck you, Stark,” Bucky mutters under his breath and Tony laughs. He’s riding high, now, endorphins and serotonin and hormones combining into the absolute _best_ kind of cocktail and there’s probably nothing he wouldn’t let come out of his mouth if it struck him at this point.

He jerks his chin at Steve, standing by the end of the island, watching them. “So. What’s he get out of this?”

Steve smiles and steps around the island, heads straight for Tony, and slips his fingers through Tony’s hair, a gesture that is quickly learning to head straight for Tony’s cock, do not pass go, do not collect $200 dollars. He leans in, brushes his lips over Tony’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, just misses his lips and Tony realizes the disappointed whine is coming from _him._  

Steve’s hand on the back of Tony’s neck is hot, heavy, possessive in the fucking _best_ way and Tony almost misses how Steve’s other hand is slipping down his chest until there’s sudden pressure over his dick and he damn near comes from sheer surprise.

“Hey.” Bucky’s arms thread around Tony’s waist and it’s just like it was before on the porch except Tony really hopes one of them is ready to catch him because if Steve doesn’t fucking _stop_ \-- “I thought you said _I_ got that.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m good for more than one, fellas,” Tony says breathlessly and Steve laughs and leans in again, brushing his lips against Tony’s.

“Then it’s up to you what you want to give me, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Tony says sincerely.

Kissing Steve--ok, being kissed by Steve--isn’t like kissing Bucky. With Bucky, there’s give and take, the soft suck of push me, pull you, but with Steve, all Tony can do is lean back and take it.

“Yeah,” Bucky hums. His grip goes tighter, his hips driving real fucking unhelpfully against the swell of Tony’s ass. “God, yes.”

Steve’s tongue is hot and brutal, his mouth like a battering ram, and Tony can feel the tension coiled in that beautiful body, the one Tony’s clinging onto for dear life. He’s lost all track of time--hell, who needs it when he has these two forces of nature?--but he and Bucky had made out for a while, with Steve standing by, and apparently, Steve had really, really liked what he saw. His hand is still spread over Tony’s dick, a squeeze, a mindblowing tease, but the heat of him is unmistakable, dear God, the _size_. Just the hint of it is enough to have Tony’s knees trembling. 

Bucky’s panting in his ear is not helping with whole remaining vertical thing, and neither is him and rucking up Tony’s shirt, stroking the sensitive skin of his belly, ditto Steve’s growling into his mouth, flexing his fingers over the curve of Tony’s cock, and this is not what he thought the plan was, not the goddamn plan at all, but hell, plans are made to be changed, right? Never let it be said Tony Stark can’t roll with an improvisation. 

He scrabbles for Bucky’s wrist and tugs it down until the tips of Bucky’s fingers are under his waistband and Bucky, dear smart boy that he is, gets with the program at once.

“Mmmm,” Bucky says against his neck, his thumb tracing the button. “Gonna open him up. He wants your hand on him, babe.” 

Steve’s mouth stills, the space between them like the eye of a hurricane: all that energy, all that momentum, held for a moment at bay. Tony leans back until their gazes meet and Steve’s are a fury, all that blue gone midnight black. “Yes,” Steve says, sandpaper. “Fuck yes.”

Together, they peel Tony open and tug him free and the relief of it makes him tear up because he’s hot, fuck, he’s been hot for so long, and no, no--he’s dying to, but he can’t look. Can’t duck his head and watch their fingers move over him, watch his dick twitch with every stroke, every hint of a caress. Can’t watch one of them pet his balls and the other tease the flush of his crown because if he does, he’ll come, he knows he will, he’ll cream Steve’s hand just like that, and much as he’s aching to, lord help him, he doesn’t want this to end.

Tony hears voices through the thrum of blood in his ears -- just voices, not words -- and, a moment later, the hands vanish off his cock and his pants are hitched up and no, no, _no_ , that is _bad_ , that is _not_ what he wants---

Bucky laughs quietly in his ear. “C’mon, darlin’. We promised you a bed, remember?”

No, quite frankly, at the minute he’s not at all sure he _does_ remember but bed, yeah, bed sounds good: bed sounds big and soft and roomy and-- 

“Hey, I can _walk_ ,” Tony says, a little irritated to find Steve and Bucky on either side of him, guiding him through the living room as though he’s too drunk to walk on his own. 

“Really?” Steve’s hand slides down to his ass, squeezes, and Tony stumbles.

“Well, I can if people don’t _cheat_!”

Bucky laughs again and steps ahead of him to push open a door. “Oh, you haven’t seen cheating yet, my friend." 

The bedroom -- what Tony gets to see of it -- is big and comfy and lived-in: there’s a big bureau with a mirror on top of it, windows with curtains already drawn, a chair with some clothes thrown over it. But he doesn’t quite honestly take in much of it because Bucky’s in front of him and Steve’s behind and they seem bound and determined to strip him in as short a time as possible and he feels no compunction whatsoever about doing the same to them.

Tony’s t-shirt vanishes -- he thinks somewhere to his left -- and his jeans are around his ankles and Steve’s shirt must have gone, too, because suddenly he’s leaning back against what feels like at least a mile of warm, pliant muscle. He scrabbles behind himself, blind, and it really is his lucky fucking day because he feels the button on Steve’s jeans pop and Steve’s sigh as his cock presses hot against Tony’s ass. 

Bucky’s jeans are in a tangle around his soft slippers, and he kicks the whole mess away under the bed. Tony holds his breath in anticipation of all that skin -- and fucking God there is _so much of it_ , yes -- pressed up against him but Bucky just smirks at him, puts his hands on Tony’s hips, and slowly slides down onto his knees.

“Oh God,” Tony says, a lot louder than he means to. “ _Bucky_. Oh shit.”

And then the world’s turning, or he’s falling, and he’s perched on the edge of their bed, sitting in between Steve’s spread thighs, Bucky beaming up at the both of them.

Then Bucky looks down and the grin fades. “Look at you,” he says, his palms ghosting over Tony’s knees, over the band-aids stuck haphazard there. “Tony, God. You got scraped up so bad. I knew it was worse than you said.”

“I’m fine, really. It’s--”

Then Bucky’s lips are there, gentle, laying a kiss on either side of each knee. “I don’t like that I hurt you.” His mouth on the inside of each thigh, a whisper: “Don’t wanna do that again.” Then he raises his head, dark waves falling over his eyes, Tony’s cock a hand’s breadth from his face. “Let me fix it,” he says. “Let me make you feel good.” 

“I have to warn you,” Tony babbles, the words flying out in a rush. “This isn’t gonna last very long. I’m not, I mean--”

Steve fists Tony’s cock, _shit_ , and nudges it towards Bucky’s lips. “Nobody’s got a stopwatch,” he says, his teeth quick on Tony’s neck, skating over the hammer of his pulse. “You come for us whenever you want.”

Bucky’s tongue sneaks out, laps gently at the head of Tony’s dick, and it’s all Tony can do to stay upright, even with the wall of Steve at his back.

“Come on, Buck.” Steve’s voice is hazy, pure steam. “Open your mouth all the way. There you go, that’s right. Show Tony what a good boy you can be.” 

And of everything that’s come before, this whole night of good food and sexed-up crazy, what breaks Tony the best is the way Bucky’s eyes go witchfire when they peel up to meet Steve’s, just as Bucky swallows his cock: the love there, the trust, the unadulterated want. It feels like a gift, being here in the their bed, tucked tight and aching between them, and he knows it isn’t his to feel, his to revel in, but damn if he can’t feel some of that affection licking at the edges of his own skin and he’s having a real hard time not wanting it. 

“Shhh,” Steve says, soothing, nuzzling at his ear. “It’s all right. Buck’s got you. I’ve got you.”

“Please,” Tony sobs, and only then does he taste all the sound in his mouth, all the fucking noise he must be making. The room’s ringing with it. “Please, _please_.”

Tony knows his hands are clenched white-knuckle on Steve’s thighs, knows he’s probably hurting, but Steve isn’t protesting, just running his hands, soft, smooth, warm, all over Tony’s stomach, his chest, tweaking over his nipples at the same time Bucky picks up the pace, smooth, fast, and fucking _hot,_ and folds himself forward against Tony’s shins. He doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t steady himself on Tony’s knees or the edge of the bed and Tony wonders for a hazy moment if his hands are behind his back, if this is some military-style shit, and then he feels Bucky’s knuckles between his legs, behind his balls, and he _loses it_.

He’s pretty sure he lifts himself off the bed on Steve’s thighs, his body straining upwards in a long arch, and Bucky follows him, raises up on his own knees and swallows around Tony’s cock, the pull and give of the muscles of his throat pulling more and more and _more_ out of Tony until there’s finally nothing left to give and he collapses back against Steve, sobbing, begging for something, whether it’s for Bucky to keep going or stop right fucking now he’s not sure but Bucky is still there in front of him, crowding in between his knees and holding him, holding him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ve got you -- we’ve got you, baby --” Steve’s voice is a warm blur in his ear and Tony sobs again, unable to bite it back, keep it in, keep _himself_ in where he should be, where he’d be safe from -- from whatever the hell this is and not wake up wanting it every goddamned night from tomorrow until the next time they invite him to dinner.

“Tony -- Tony, please, let me --” Bucky’s voice, cracking, tight, and Bucky’s leaning against him, mouthing over Tony’s neck, his collarbones, his breastbone. “...please let me…”

“Let you...” Tony finally manages to wheeze out. “Let you what? Fuck, sweetheart, you do -- you do whatever you need to do.” He lifts one hand, meaning to make an airy, devil-may-care wave, but instead his fingers smack into Bucky’s shoulder and then Bucky is kissing him again: no hesitation this time, just lips and tongue, sloppy and wet.

“Here… Here, Tony, like this…” Steve’s hand slides over his, winds their fingers together, and slides forward along Tony’s naked thigh until their twined fingertips touch the arch of Bucky’s hipbone.

Bucky breaks away from Tony’s mouth, gasping in breath, dropping his forehead against Tony’s shoulder, begging again: “Please, _please_ \--"

By now Tony’s got the idea and a few more neurons firing and he doesn’t need Steve to show him the way but fuck if there isn’t something dirty and sweet about Steve showing him how to touch Bucky, what it is that Bucky likes, what he needs to get off.

“Right there,” Steve says. “Yeah. Just like that.”

He only gets a glimpse of it, but Bucky’s cock is gorgeous, like the rest of him: the head the color of bruised plums, the shaft fat with an insolent curve, and when they touch him, run their fingers over his heat, Bucky cries out against his skin, spilling the sound all over him.

“Baby,” Tony says, clawing gently at Bucky’s ribs. “God, you feel so fucking good.”

Bucky’s cheek is damp with sweat against Tony’s, his breath coming in these hot little pants, and he’s clutching at Steve’s hips, at Tony’s, rocking himself into their fists.

Steve shifts behind him, tips a groan against Tony’s cheek, and tightens his grip on Bucky’s dick, closes their fists. “Pinch his nipples,” he spits. “Do it now. Hard.”

Tony’s hand flies up, no thought needed, and the sound Bucky makes when his fingers bear down and twist is like a bell breaking, shattering notes scattering everywhere fast. 

Bucky’s head snaps up and suddenly Steve is looming over Tony’s shoulder, his free hand clutching at Bucky’s neck and they’re kissing, sweet Jesus, are they. There’s nothing patient about it, nothing studied; it’s all sloppy and wet and slick and fuck, Steve’s tasting Tony on Bucky’s tongue, he has to be, lapping at what they did to him, what they’ve done, and when Bucky comes, a sharp jerk of spunk, Tony turns his head and opens his mouth and both of them are sighing when they welcome him in.

The room is quiet for a minute, then two, just the rasp of their breathing, and Tony doesn’t think before he says, “You guys have way better Tuesdays than I do.”

There’s a moment of silence and then Bucky bursts out laughing, leaning full-body against Tony and just _laughing_ like this is the funniest fucking thing anyone’s said to him in years and, wow, that’s kind of addictive, too, and crap--Tony is in such serious trouble. 

Bucky drags in a deep breath and reaches up to kiss Tony’s cheek, a strangely chaste gesture. “But we’re not done yet, babe.” His hand slips around the curve of Tony’s waist as he speaks and Tony is suddenly sharply aware that Steve’s cock is right there.

Steve doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound, but his entire body goes tight, every muscle in contact with Tony’s body -- which is pretty much all of them, he figures -- tensing as Bucky’s fingers trace his length.

Bucky raises himself up, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. “Lie back for us, Stevie, okay?”

Steve still says nothing, just eases himself back along the bed and, when Tony can muster enough co-ordination to twist himself around on hands and knees, there’s Steve, spread out like a fucking porn _dream_ : all golden skin and cut muscle and a cock to bring dildo designers to tears. 

“C’mon--” Bucky grabs Tony’s hand, for all the world like they’re boys playing a game and Bucky wants Tony on his team. That impression immediately goes out the window when Bucky pulls Tony’s hand up to his mouth and kisses over his fingertips, tracing the inside of his mouth with the tip of Tony’s thumb. Then he glances down at Steve. “You okay there, babe?" 

“Fine.” Steve’s voice is remarkably steady, Tony thinks, and that seems unfair because he’s pretty damned sure he’s forgotten 99% of his vocabulary and God only knows it was never that big to begin with.

Bucky tugs on his hand, urging him up the bed until he’s on one side of Steve, Bucky’s on the other, their clasped hands resting on the rise of Steve’s breastbone.

“What do you think?” Bucky whispers, leaning across to kiss Tony, slow and deep. “Where do you wanna start?”

The words stutter out of his mouth, shake. “I--I don’t know.”

It’s an honest answer, maybe one not right for a night like this--it’s about sex after all, isn’t it? About all the awesome ways they can get each other off. He’s supposed to have a ready answer; hell, he’s supposed to have a list: _here_ and _there_ and _this_. But where he wants to start is now, tonight; he wants these last few hours to be the beginning of something weird and lovely and _permanent_. He’s never really wanted that before but apparently all it took was being hit by a bike and a _really_ good dinner. He’s enamored of these men, his accidental almost-assassin and his unbeknownest colleague in part because he likes who he is with them: someone who feels like himself.

It’s been a long fucking time since he’s laughed this much, talked that much about stuff that’s important, spent time in the company of two people who radiate so much fucking happy, so much kindness. And as much as he wants to touch Steve, to worship at the chiseled altar of his body, he also hates the idea of this being over, of this warm, sweet night coming to its inevitable end.

If there’s a lump in his throat, well. He’s always been a sentimental bastard, all appearances be damned.

“I don’t know,” he says again, a ragged repeat. “Why don’t you choose?”

Bucky brushes their lips together. “You sure?”

“If you two don’t step to it,” Steve says, his hands snaking over their shoulders, “I’ve got a mind to just do it myself.”

“It’s a lot,” Tony says. He doesn’t know why he’s still talking. “That’s all. It’s--this is all kind of a lot.”

Bucky makes a soft, considering sound and draws back, lets Tony see the concern in his eyes. “Are you ok?”

“You realize how many times that you’ve asked me that in the short time we’ve been acquainted?” His voice is uneven, not strong. Not sexy. The opposite, surely, of what they’re expecting him to be and he could really kick himself because if he isn’t what they’re expecting him to be, then how can he expect them to let him stay, even just to finish this night?

Steve stirs beneath them. “Tony,” he says. “Hey. Hey, baby.” He scootches up, plants his back against the wall, and reaches for Tony, pulls him in tight. Bucky curls up against Steve’s other shoulder, sliding one hand over Steve’s belly to rest on Tony’s hip, his thumb rubbing small circles over the bone. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , this is _really_ not what he intended and Tony takes a deep breath, holds it, and reaches out for Steve’s cock, that gorgeous flushed thick curve just there going to waste--

Steve’s free hand interposes, sliding their fingers together and bringing Tony’s hand to rest over his navel. “It’ll wait,” he says.

“It shouldn’t,” Tony mutters rebelliously and Bucky chuckles. 

“Steve likes delayed gratification.” Bucky stretches up and kisses Steve’s forehead. “Don’t you, babe? And _you_ never answered my question.”

Tony stares at him, genuinely befuddled as Steve’s big fingers stroke through his hair.

“Are you okay?” Bucky repeats, slow and clear. 

“Am I--oh! Fuck -- yeah, _yeah_ , I’m okay--” Tony swipes a hand over his face, pinching sweat out of the corners of his eyes -- _sweat_ is what it is, okay? Other options are not being entertained at this time, thank you very much.

“So…” Bucky touches Tony’s temple, rubs his fingertips together, then wiggles them in Tony’s face. “This is what happens when you’re okay?”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. _Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit--_ “Look, it’s just -- kind of overwhelming all right? I wasn’t -- expecting --- _this_.” He waves his hand in a general gesture meant to take in the bed, the two fucking gorgeous naked men in the bed, the house, the meal, the way that they’re making him feel: wanted and beautiful and more than that--despite the Penthouse Letters of it all, what Tony really feels is _adored_.

It’s the damnedest thing. And fuck if he’s gonna try to put it into words. 

There’s silence for a minute and Tony risks cracking open an eye. He’s sure he’s going to see Steve and Bucky looking at each other, the silent discussion of how to get rid of the weirdo with a bad case of the feels they didn’t realize they’d saddled themselves with -- but instead what he sees is Steve looking at Bucky with a faint smile on his lips and Bucky blushing again, scrubbing a hand back through the damp tangle of his hair.

“Uh -- yeah, I -- I’m sorry, Tony. I just --” Bucky shifts uncomfortably, his eyes on the sheets: not meeting Tony’s eyes and not looking up at Steve. Steve chuckles, a sound that rings warm through Tony’s body and Bucky rolls his eyes, gives Steve a shove with his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I didn’t hear you arguing any.”

“Hell, no,” Steve says easily. “But maybe you should tell Tony and not me, huh?”

“It’s fine, okay? I get it.” Tony tries to shove some of his usual assurance back into his voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t -- I’m not usually the guy to ruin the party.”

Not that the parties he’s been to have been like this, exactly, he reminds himself: there’s usually more rapid-fire cocksucking and less cuddling. Which, with the power of contrast, strikes him as the reason perhaps he’d never liked those parties as much as he felt he really should.

“You’re not,” Steve interrupts, pulling Tony against him more firmly as though he can sense Tony’s itch to escape. “What’s the point of this if you don’t feel good doing it?”

“What’s the point?” He tries to laugh, but it comes out hollow and weird. “Uh, orgasms? Aren’t orgasms the point of a hookup?" 

Bucky looks appalled. “Fuck, Tony, what the hell.”

“What?” Tony looks from one to the other. “What? I don’t get it.”

Steve slides down the bed, turns onto his side and curls himself around Tony, his hands coming up to frame Tony’s face, making it impossible for Tony to look away. “Hey, we _like_ you, Tony.”

Bucky, settling in along Steve’s back, has hooked his chin over Steve’s bicep and nods. “Yeah, we do.”

“And if orgasms are what you want, that’s cool and we’ll be good with that but -- you can ask for more if you want it.”

“But you don’t know me,” Tony says, because it’s easier than letting those words, that look, sink in. “How can you say that when you don’t--either of you, you--?”

“You’re right,” Steve says, “we don’t. And you don’t know us, either. Not really.” He smooths a hand through Tony’s hair; not a clutch like before, but a caress. “But we like you. And I have a funny feeling that you might like us." 

“Mmm,” Tony says, a little smile sliding back. “Maybe a little.”

“So what better reason is there for the three of us to spend time together? Doesn’t have to be in bed. Maybe most of the time, it won’t be. But something tells me Bucky’s sold on you, Tony. Real good. Straight down the line. And me--”

“And you?”

Steve’s mouth curves, this broad, beautiful thing. “I may be a few steps behind him, but I’m catching up fast.”

“God,” Bucky says, exasperation tempered by a grin. “You two.” He pitches over Steve’s shoulder and kisses Tony--soft, this time, and sweet--then bends down and gives Steve the same treatment. They must’ve done it thousands of times, more, but to Tony, this looks like a first kiss, both of them a little uncertain, a little unsure. And why not? he thinks. This sounds like new territory for them, too.

He slips his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tangles them at the base of his neck, and pets at Steve’s cheek, scratching his nails through the stubble, and they open their eyes, mouths still fused, tongues still gently moving, and look right at him and in their gaze, he sees himself: not a worn-out exec or a smart ass or an unhappy old man, but as somebody beautiful. Somebody who belongs.

He swallows hard, the tangle of words hurting his chest, and what’s funny is that what his heart’s feeling hasn’t negated what his body wants; if anything, the swirl of both only makes each one stronger.

So when he opens his mouth and “Please, fuck, can I blow you now?” comes out, it seems just about right. Even if it makes Bucky laugh like a loon.

Barnes falls back, one hand spread over his eyes and Steve grins, then starts to giggle, biting at his lower lip to try and hide it but that’s a giggle, damn it. Tony knows it.

“So is that a no?” he prompts, skating his fingers over Steve’s ribs, delighted to find that he can get even more giggling that way. 

“Try behind his knees,” Bucky says. 

Steve squeaks, indignant. “Buck--!”

But Tony’s fast, moving like a snake now that he knows where to go. He slips the tips of his fingers in the soft space behind Steve’s knee and Steve--enormous, statue Steve--he fucking _squeals_. It may be the most undignified sound Tony has ever heard another human being make and frankly, he fucking loves it.

He’s got the advantage and he uses it shamelessly, throwing his weight to knock Steve’s legs apart and then pinning one knee so he can really home in. Bucky pounces on Steve’s chest, holds him down hard, and that’s all she wrote, folks: Rogers is done for.

“Please,” Steve gasps, cheeks red full to bursting, “God, please -- Tony, c’mon!”

Tony beams up at them, these two beautiful men-- _his_ two beautiful men, he realizes with a clench in his chest, if he wants them--and, well, fuck yeah he does. How could there be any question?

So he plays nice, lets go of Steve’s tortured knee, and pitches over to run his tongue down the length of Steve’s dick.

“Jesus--!” Steve’s whole body jumps and Bucky grunts, jolted, and gives Tony a _keep going_ grin.

“I want you to come, Steve,” Tony says between licks, long and languorous. “I want your balls to draw up tight and I want to watch you twitch and I want to see what you taste like when I fucking drive you out of your mind.”

“Oh, hey,” Bucky says, digging his fingers into the meat of Steve’s thigh. “You want some help with that?”

Steve keens, an honest-to-God wail, and that’s before they get their mouths on him, before Bucky laps hot at the shaft and Tony sucks on the soft plum of the head.

“Shit,” Steve hisses the first time their tongues touch, the first time they kiss with his cock in between. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck me, you’re gonna--I can’t believe that you’re--”

And Tony knows Steve’s close because his hands, those big, powerful mitts that have held them both, driven them, commanded, they start to flutter, paper cranes at the end of two strings, and all Steve can do is touch their skin, brush, tap his fingers helpless against their heads.

Tony kinda loses track for a bit, snuggled against Steve’s hip, one hand flat against the plan of Steve’s stomach, trading wet kisses with Bucky over the swollen crown of Steve’s cock. There’s a foreskin to play with another time, but all Tony can feel now is slick, soft, wet, and he stops really thinking about swallowing after a while because Steve, it turns out, is a leaker. The hollow of his stomach and the insides of his thighs are slick with moisture and Tony would worry about that except he can also hear Steve moaning, a continuous, gentle wave that sounds absolutely _nothing_ like discomfort.

Bucky has his fingers wrapped gently around Steve’s length, his thumb moving lightly in the space just between Steve’s balls. Tony wraps his hand over Bucky’s, filling in the spaces between Bucky’s fingers with his own. Under his chest, he can feel Steve’s thigh tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, a steady rhythm.

Bucky finally raises his head and looks up the length of Steve’s torso. “C’mon, babe… stop with the strong man routine. Tony’s impressed, I guarantee it.”

Steve has his eyes squeezed shut and just shakes his head against the pillow, his hair rasping against the cotton. 

Tony takes the opportunity to give Steve’s cock a solid suck, slipping his mouth down until his lips touch Bucky’s fingers and Bucky groans. Tony grins -- or would if he didn’t have his mouth full -- and slips back slowly, as slowly as he can go, pulling at the head of Steve’s cock until he’s afraid he’ll actually hurt and then letting it pop out of his mouth.

He licks his lips, savoring the taste -- sweet, dark, a little salty -- and reaches out to thumb over Bucky’s lower lip. “Come on back now,” he says, “give your man this pretty mouth again.”

Bucky’s eyes flash--sweet, dark, a little salty--but he tips down without a word and takes up where Tony left off. Steve’s breath hitches higher, and when Tony tugs his hand away, slides it over the inner curve of Steve’s thigh, he can feel the tremble in Steve’s body, how hard they’ve got him wound up. He grins over at Bucky. Bucky gives him a wink. Yeah, Tony thinks, they make a hell of a team.

Except Captain Delayed Gratification is still in one piece, still gritting his teeth. Tony shakes his head and kisses the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, a warning: yeah, this stoic shit will not stand.

Tony slides his fingertips up the sine curve of Steve’s thigh and dips them back until he finds a tight furl of muscle.

“Oh,” Steve says, faint, his voice almost lost beneath the wet slurp of Buck’s mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

Bucky hums, low and pleased, and rides out the kick of Steve’s hips, the sudden shove of his cock, and that’s it, Tony’s desperate for it, dying, like 125% ready to see Steve Rogers come.

He hesitates for a second, watches, looks for Bucky to latch on and get a good solid suck and then he presses in a touch, just enough to feel the squeeze of Steve, the perfect hot clench, and Steve’s hips fly off of the bed and lo and be-fucking-hold, the man finally breaks; Steve gives up the ghost and he chokes, his body tensing in one long, delicious line, and the noise he makes will be starring in Tony’s fantasies for the rest of his fucking life--

“Tony Tony Tony, Buck, oh God, Bucky, _fuck--_!”

\--and now there’s spunk on Bucky’s mouth, dripping over his chin, hot; hotter still when Tony kisses the base of Steve’s cock, laps at the stretch of his balls and Steve _howls_ , a loud, wild sound and now there’s come on Tony’s cheek, too, and Bucky’s laughing, a warm sound like cinnamon, sweet like berries and cream.

“Such a mess,” Bucky murmurs. “Look at you, Stevie. So pretty when you finally let go.”

Tony kisses Buck, lazy, then laps away at the slick on his chin, and the noise Steve makes is pained, like the poor, fucked-out guy’s just been punched in the gut.

“Come _here_ ,” he groans. “Both of you, God. Stop being greedy.”

“Greedy?” Now Tony’s the one laughing. “Damn, Rogers, haven’t you had enough?”

Bucky winks at him and they wind their way up, two bodies in tandem, in time. “I don’t think that’s possible, do you, babe?” 

Steve just grunts and reaches for them, blind. “Shut up and kiss me, idiots.” 

Tony sinks to one side and Bucky tumbles to the other and Steve opens his mouth and lets each of them in, 31 flavors of kisses: firm and deep, soft and sweet, then slower, slow, until they’re nuzzled together, a hot mess of sticky skin and tangled fingers, of low, steady breaths that ease one into the other. 

Outside, the street is dark and quiet, broken only by the occasional chatter of a taxi or a group of chortling college kids walking by. Inside, the lights are still burning but Tony’s eyes are happier closed, the warmth of these men, of their bed, curled up and around him and four hours ago, he couldn’t have called either of them a friend and now--and now, there are bigger words rattling around in his head, heavy; the first stirrings of something that one day might be love.

“Fellas,” Tony whispers. “I like you. Kind of a whole fucking lot. Just wanted you to know that, you, ah.” His face goes hot and he ducks his head, buries his cheek against the swing of Steve’s shoulder, squeezes Bucky’s hand. “In case you had any questions.”


	4. Chapter 4

**_Six months later_**  


“So you’re blocking off tomorrow, Friday, Saturday, _and_ Sunday?” Clint’s eyebrows are practically meeting his hairline.

“That’s the deal, yeah." 

“Like, actual vacation days.”

“Yes.”

“Where you don’t sneak in through the back door or lock yourself in one of the labs or--” 

“Vacation, Barton. As in actual vacation.”

“ _And_ you’re coming to the board meeting on Monday? Like _actually_ coming? Not just saying you will to freak them all out and then bailing at the last minute?”

“Nope, actually coming.”

“Because that’ll be--” Clint glances at his tablet. “--six board meetings in a row.”

“That’s what I counted, too.”

“But. Six _whole_ board meetings. In a _row.”_

There’s a rap on the door before Tony can answer and Steve peers in around the edge of the door. “Hey, Tony, are--oh! Sorry, we can come back later.”

“No, no, no, come in--” Tony waves to him. “We’re almost finished, right, Barton?”

“Uh--” Clint’s attention is momentarily distracted by Steve slipping in with Bucky a pace or two behind.

Tony watches Clint look Bucky up and down -- Bucky smiles back amicably -- then turn to Steve, give him a nod of hallway hello. “Hey, Rogers.”

“Hi, Clint. This is Bucky.”

“Oh?” Clint says, and shit, is Tony gonna hear about this on Monday: _why didn’t you tell me your other boyfriend was so fucking hot?_   “Hey, man.”

“Hey.”

Clint pivots back to Tony, his eyebrows doing cartwheels. “So, uh, boss, do I need to update your contact info for the weekend?”

Tony shrugs. “I don’t know. Steve?” 

Steve flushes to his ears but his voice is commendably steady. “Sure. I can give you the number.”

“Good.” Clint reaches up--way, way up--and pats Steve on the shoulder. “And just so we’re clear: I’m gonna be your worst fucking nightmare if this goes south.” He turns the same affable-with-teeth smile on Bucky who looks momentarily taken aback. “You, too, pretty boy.” 

Bucky, bless him, just grins. “We’re planning on taking him north, actually. My family’s got a cabin up near White River Junction.” 

“Good.” Clint claps him on the shoulder, too. “North sounds good. Like, real far north. Practically Canada. The closer to the hinterlands, the better.”

“Get out of my office, Barton. Don't you have a copy machine to harass? Some passive aggressive emails to send?”

Clint leans over, stage whispers: “Please tell me he’s not like this when he’s naked.”

“Get! _Out_!” Tony doesn’t embarrass easily but there are limits to everything, damn it. Especially where Barton’s concerned.

The door slams shut with a bang and damn if Bucky’s not all over him, giggling and shoving him back in his chair. “Be nice, boss man. He’s just looking out for you." 

“I am being nice!” Tony protests as Bucky straddles his lap. “I’m the nicest boss in the world, aren't I, Steve?”

Steve’s idling over, his fingers tugging at the knot in his tie, his grin sneaky and wide. “Hmmmm. I don't know, Mr. Stark, _sir_. But hey. You have your moments.”


End file.
